Virus in the Data
by hatondog
Summary: Ghosts are not all which shadow our every sunny day. Moriarty's post-mortem plans threaten to change modern life, and Sherlock's, forever. Solving the case will crumble his defenses and might cause him to become what he once thought would protect him-alone. Will the stakes of seeing his friends leave him be too high? Shame is, after all, a paralytic. Post-TAB.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1.

"221B Baker Street," commanded Sherlock as he pulled a car door closed behind him. The driver didn't respond, instead turning to Mycroft, who climbed into the front seat with a sigh.

"Sherlock," said Mycroft in a weary tone, "This is not one of those ubiquitous cabs you're so fond of gadding about London in. This is my car, and my driver, and we're not going anywhere until I say so."

"And we're not going to 221B in any event," John chimed in with a sharp look at Sherlock.

"Of course we are," he snapped back.

The driver pulled down his visor against the sun glinting off of the private jet parked next to the car and waited for instructions. His passengers had just departed the plane, which had landed mere minutes after takeoff. It had been bound for Eastern Europe with Sherlock aboard to complete a mission which, in Mycroft's inarguable estimation, would prove fatal to him in about 6 months.

The mission had been an alternative to lifelong residence in a prison cell for his murder of newspaper magnate Charles Augustus Magnussen. The latter had placed Mary Watson at risk by threatening exposure to her enemies. Apparently, those were legion, as Mary's past had involved more than a bit of assassination on behalf of the US Government then, eventually, certain high bidders. Magnussen's death was, to Sherlock's mind, a more than fair trade for Mary's freedom. More importantly, it ensured her continued association with her husband and Sherlock's best friend, John Watson. That would make John happy, and by extension, Sherlock.

Unfortunately, the Commonwealth didn't agree with his logic. It took a dim view of citizens meting out capital punishment to one another, so Sherlock was given a choice: solitary confinement away from prisoners whose presence in jail was his handiwork, or near certain death in far-away Serbia. He settled on the latter as being preferable to an eternity alone with his thoughts.

Even so, while Sherlock may have been willing to sacrifice himself to Queen and country in payment for murder, he wasn't enthusiastic about the prospect. Escape was an appealing alternative. None being to hand, however, he took the next best option, sinking into a drug-induced oblivion.

Not incidentally, being deeply high also brought clarity of thought to Sherlock's complicated brain, allowing him to explore his favorite mystery of whether and how James Moriarty, consulting criminal second only to Magnusson in evil intent, could have survived a gunshot which removed a sizable portion of _his_ brain. Ingesting a potentially lethal cocktail of opiates, amphetamines and other drugs provided by his obliging fellow prisoners (many of whom were all too happy to make sure the poison reached him) offered Sherlock endless opportunity for such entertainment. And if he didn't manage to survive the cocktail's effects, well, someone else could surely take his place in Eastern Europe. It was a win-win.

Or would have been, had he not decided to take a massive dose not long before boarding his flight. The rapid return to the landing field didn't give the drugs time to leave his system. Indeed, as the wheels touched down, he had never been higher. So it was that his brother, best friend and the latter's wife found him incoherent and nearly unconscious in his seat. On the upside, he now had a clear vision of Moriarty's post-mortem plans. On the downside, his drug use was certainly going to be a lively and unwelcome topic of conversation for some time to come.

"No," said John firmly.

"No, what?" huffed Sherlock.

"No, we're not going to Baker Street. God knows what kind of crap you have crammed into every nook and cranny there. Besides, you're going to come down hard and you're not doing it alone. We're going to our house," he glanced at Mary for confirmation. She nodded.

"Ridiculous," Sherlock responded.

"Mycroft," John said pleadingly.

"Yes, Sherlock, I'm afraid that I agree with John on this. You forget that I've had the unpleasant experience of watching you recover from a near overdose. It is not an experience I wish to repeat, nor is it one you can handle on your own. We'll do as John suggests." Mycroft's tone left no room for argument. Sherlock gave him one anyway.

"I. Am. Fine," he growled. "I don't need a babysitter-" Just then, his body betrayed him with a series of severe muscle twitches. Sweat broke out on Sherlock's brow. He stiffened, fighting for control over his autonomic nervous system. "We do not have time for this. I know what Moriarty has in the works and—"

"Shut up," John said, his voice quiet but ringing. "Just shut up. You think I don't know what's going on here?" Sherlock looked at him questioningly.

"Six months, Mycroft says." John's voice took on a fake baritone in a cruel imitation of Sherlock's own. "He's never wrong, you said. What you didn't say was that you weren't coming back—you didn't have six months to work, you had only six months to live! So this," John waved over Sherlock's form, which continued to twitch and sweat. "This was you not caring. Not about whether you lived or died, and not about how we'd feel when you were gone. Again." John breathing was now as nearly as labored as Sherlock's. "Wasn't it?"

Sherlock didn't reply.

"WASN'T IT?" John roared. Mycroft flinched and Mary reached for John's arm.

"Look, Sherlock, you know we appreciate…we can never repay…what you did with Magnussen…" John was suddenly at a loss for words. The wind seemed to go from his sails.

"Just, I can't lose you again, okay?" Sherlock looked away to study his hands. "So let me do this. Take care of you this time."

Silence filled the car. Sherlock sagged, then raised red-rimmed eyes to John.

"I want to go home, John." His voice held a whisper of vulnerability.

"Right," said John. "So we go to Baker Street. But I'll—" Mary squeezed his arm. "We'll stay with you through this, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded. Mycroft let out a breath he hadn't quite realized he was holding.

"221B Baker Street," he said. The driver came to attention and drove the now quiet car away.

Sherlock's recovery from his chemical dalliance was every bit as gruesome as Mycroft had implied it would be. Migraine, nausea, respiratory distress, hypercapnia, muscle spasms, profuse sweating—all would be his constant companions over the next 48 hours. Only John and Mary's presence kept him from seeking relief from just one more dose, then another and another. And only their medical expertise allowed them distance from the horror of watching their friend disintegrate before their eyes.

"Moriarty," groaned Sherlock, who was slumped before his toilet. Gulping back another round of retching, he waved a hand toward John. "He set it all in motion. Knew he was going to die—wanted to die—so he set it up before…" Sherlock broke off as another wave of nausea caught him.

"Sherlock, now's not the time," John interrupted.

"It IS," insisted Sherlock. He leaned back against the bathroom wall with a deep breath, wiping his mouth. "It has to be. What Moriarty has planned is vast and could take effect at any time. It has a life of its own, John, a virtual existence. Any place can be its home, anything its host. It…" Sherlock broke off despite himself, lost in a series of spasms which shook his limbs.

Deciding that a distracted Sherlock was better than one in pain, John interjected. "What is 'it', Sherlock? Biowarfare? Is there an epidemic coming, a mass infection?"

"Yes, and no," said Sherlock, once he'd caught his breath. "I don't know exactly what is coming but it will be big and we must stop it. The risks are too great."

"Risk?" asked John. "Risk to what?"

Sherlock straightened. Eyes glittering in excitement (and not a small amount of fever), he smiled.

"Life as we know it."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2.

6 pm, Beijing

Deep in the bowels of Google's shining Beijing headquarters, a young computer coder tipped back his seventh Red Bull of the day. Despite the massive influx of caffeine to his system, his hands were steady as he shoved objects aside on his desk to make room for his personal laptop. As its operating system launched, Wang Dong, known as Jack to his friends, eyed a New York Times article on his office monitor:

"American officials are concerned that the Chinese government could use the stolen records of millions of federal workers and contractors to piece together the identities of intelligence officers secretly posted in China over the years.

The potential exposure of the intelligence officers could prevent a large cadre of American spies from ever being posted abroad again, current and former intelligence officials said. It would be a significant setback for intelligence agencies already concerned that a recent data breach at the Office of Personnel Management is a major windfall for Chinese espionage efforts."

Jack smiled as he turned to his laptop and began to type.

10 am, London

Thousands of miles away, Sherlock rolled fitfully in his bed, twisting the sheets around himself. In his brain, disturbing visions flashed by in disjointed bits and pieces. Voices floated through his thoughts.

"I'm going to have a talk with your mother, young man." He turned in the dream to see Mrs. Hudson standing behind him, a disapproving look on her face.

"She doesn't understand—" he began in response.

"No, Sherlock, love. It's you who doesn't understand. You can't treat me or others like dirt under your feet." She looked sad and glanced behind him as another voice joined the fray.

"It's true, Sherl," Janine Donlevy, neé Hawkins said. "You lied and lied to me. All for a case, like I wasn't worth the effort of being honest or nice."

Sherlock whirled around. "You don't think pretending to be a boyfriend didn't take _effort_?" he snapped. Janine pulled back.

"We could have been friends. Didn't that matter? Didn't I? I know I'm worth it—I'm married now and know how a man should treat me. Nothing like you did, that's for certain."

"I said I was sorry," Sherlock responded.

Janine shook her head. "No, you didn't. You never do…", she added as her image faded from view.

"Well, you do say you're sorry, sometimes." Molly Hooper picked up where Janine left off. "I don't know if you ever mean it, but you say it, and that's something." She stepped up to him. "But are you ever sorry for what you do to yourself? For risking your mind with poison? Don't you care about the love of your friends?" With that, she slapped him and Sherlock jerked awake with a shouted "Yes!".

Before he could fully recover from the nightmare, John poked his head around the door. "You okay, Sherlock? I heard you yelling."

"Fine, I'm fine," Sherlock said, pulling the sheets from around him. He looked at John just in time to see his lips purse at Sherlock's automatic response to concern.

"I really am fine, John. It was," Sherlock took a deep breath to force the words out. "Just a nightmare." Sherlock's eyes slid away again, as if the tiny admission of weakness was more than he could bear.

John's stepped into the room. "Mary's packing, but we can stay longer if you need us to. It's not a problem."

"Yes, it is," said Sherlock firmly. "Mary is ready to deliver at any moment and there's no purpose to you staying here with me. I hate repeating myself, but I really am fine." He glanced at John for his reaction. "And, um, I do appreciate what you've done, helping me the past few days." The last was said quickly, as if Sherlock was tearing off a bandage. John's eyebrows raised.

"Our pleasure," he responded.

"No, it wasn't." Sherlock smiled.

"Yeah, you're right. You're a lousy patient, you know that?" John smiled back.

"Well, fortunately you're a good doctor," Sherlock said, then changed the subject. "When are you leaving?" He pushed the bedclothes away. "I am going to see Mycroft, much as the idea pains me. I'd like you to join me…if you can." The last three words sounded almost unforced. "He says he has information to share about Moriarty's plans, and I could use your help if the information proves to be at all useful."

"Well, I have to get Mary home, but I can come after."

"Bring Mary. She'll be interested to hear this as well, so long as she can hold the baby in a bit longer." Sherlock rummaged through his wardrobe for clothes.

"Sherlock, this is my child we're talking about, not a sack of potatoes. She'll come when she sees fit, not when it suits you." John said, exasperated.

"Yes, yes…" Sherlock waved him off.

John sighed. "I'll check with Mary. Maybe a nice bit of espionage will be a good break for her. She's getting so tired of sitting around."

"That's the spirit," answered Sherlock cheerfully.

11:00 am, London.

Mary began giggling as soon as she, John and Sherlock reached the check-in desk at The Diogenes Club. The combination of the ancient steward (and guests), the formal surroundings and the insistence on absolute silence tickled her to no end. John tried to shush her, but the old men gathered in the front room were still scandalized. Whether it was because of Mary's mirth, her gender or both was hard to say.

Reaching Mycroft's office didn't sober her at all. It was equally formal, if not more so, with a massive knight's armor holding up one corner and tea service for 20 gracing another. Mycroft rolled his eyes at her reaction.

"Must you travel with an entourage these days, Sherlock? At one time, you preferred to be alone."

"Just because no one can stand your company, Mycroft, doesn't mean that people aren't willing to be with me. It's called "friendship", brother mine. You should try it sometime." Sherlock replied, his cheerfulness increasing at the prospect not only of a new mystery, but also of getting one up on Mycroft.

"Yes, well. We can't all be so…lucky," Mycroft responded with a baleful glance at John and Mary. He continued, turning his computer monitor toward Sherlock.

"We just got information which appears to relate to the transmission of Moriarty's image around the country." He pointed to the screen, on which a series of dots were flashing in red.

"You know how he did it?", John asked.

"No, at least not yet. We will determine that, of course. But in the meantime, there are signs that the incursion into our electronic networks is continuing." Mycroft said.

"These are satellites," Sherlock mused, leaning into the screen.

"Television satellites, to be precise. Unfortunately, they are non-functional, as the majority of them stopped working this morning. For the most part, the incident has only affected the breakfast viewing habits of the British public. However, we expect a rather larger hue and cry to erupt once a sizable number of people find themselves deprived of _EastEnders_ and the like."

"That's why your set wasn't working!", exclaimed Mary. "I thought it was because Sherlock shot the TV or something, but it's this." John grinned at her while Sherlock ignored the comment.

"Can you get the satellite network back online?", asked Sherlock.

"Yes, although it will take some time. However Moriarty gained control over it, it will be pointless to reactivate the satellite transmissions if they aren't secure. In all likelihood, the network would go down again, this time with potentially greater consequences than a reduction in sitcom viewing."

"Consequences?", asked John. "Like what?"

Sherlock answered. "If the outage spreads beyond television satellites, it could affect any number of systems based on our space infrastructure. Military organizations would no longer be able to rely on them for secure communication or navigation. International calling would fail as well, so that outlet for sharing data would be lost."

Mycroft nodded. "Non-military systems could be affected as well. Air traffic control, GPS, social networks—all could be at risk."

"And you think Moriarty could have planned this?" John asked, with a tone of incredulity.

"He—or someone acting on his behalf—already got into the satellite system to share that video of him, didn't they? A broader attack would be a relatively incremental step at this point."

"A virus in the data," Mycroft interjected. Sherlock spun toward him, flinching.

"What?", asked Mary.

"Sherlock?", added John.

Sherlock just stared at Mycroft. "What did you say?"

"That's Moriarty, isn't it? A bug in our systems. A very pathogenic virus." Mycroft replied, eyes sharply monitoring Sherlock's reaction. "And a very persistent visitor in your mind, I must say, Sherlock. May I remind you that Moriarty is dead? He is hardly in a position to expand on anything, much less take over our communication systems. This obsession of yours with him is simply unhealthy. We've seen an image of him, nothing more. He is hardly going to turn up at the Space Agency."

"I didn't say he was alive. I'm quite aware that Moriarty is dead, Mycroft. But his plans aren't—and I think this is just the beginning gambit in what may be a very long game." Sherlock shot back.

"A great game, Sherlock," asked Mycroft mockingly. "Isn't that what you called it on your blog, Dr. Watson, a chess match between Sherlock and his real "arch-enemy"?"

Sherlock huffed. John frowned. "Mycroft has a point, Sherlock. Moriarty killed himself, you saw it yourself. He thought he had you up there on the roof, that there was no escape. Why would he go to the trouble of putting all this in motion too?" John gestured at the computer screen, where red dots continued to merrily flicker.

"Why indeed, John." Sherlock refocused on Mycroft. "Was there a point to bringing me here, or were you just looking to humiliate me?"

"Well, that is always a bonus," Mycroft conceded. "But yes, there is a point. I have a theory about what is happening, but I need you to do some legwork for me to confirm it." Mycroft made a face to show his distaste for hand-on effort.

"Why not just tell us your theory, Mycroft? Why all the drama?" asked Mary.

"Where would be the fun in that?" answered Mycroft. Just as Sherlock began to stalk away, he continued. "I need you to investigate, Sherlock. Find out if whoever did this left any kind of trail behind. If they did, we may be able to anticipate their next move."

"Why me?" asked Sherlock. "You have lackeys to do that work, whole organizations of them."

"If it _is_ Moriarty behind this, and I'm not saying it is, but _if_ he is, who else better to determine what he was thinking than you?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock was silent for several long moments. John and Mary looked apprehensively at him, then at Mycroft. The two brothers seemed caught in a staring match.

"Yes, of course. I'll take your case, Mycroft, and I'll do you one better. I'll prove to you that this is all Moriarty's doing." Sherlock turned on his heel and walked to the door. Just as he pulled it open, Mycroft responded.

"I just hope you've acquired a measure of immunity," Mycroft paused importantly. "To this virus of yours."

Sherlock stomped through the door, slamming it behind him. John and Mary followed quickly. Just as John was going through the door behind Mary, Mycroft spoke again.

"Dr. Watson," he said.

"Yes?" asked John.

"Watch him for me, will you?" Mycroft said, a small note of worry creeping into his voice.

John nodded, then followed in Sherlock's wake.

5 pm, Edinburgh

A hiker settled on a rock just off a path in a remote area of the Highlands. It had been two hours since he'd seen another person, but the solitude was like a soft breeze to him. His point of view became a bit less peaceful, however, when he noticed that his mobile phone was no longer connected to a calling signal.

"Bugger," he thought, standing to see if he could pick up a bar or two by holding the phone above his head. Nothing happened. It was getting late, so might be a good time to turn back for his car in any event.

Moving forward and switching through applications, the hiker noticed something more disturbing. The GPS signal which had guided him off the beaten path was absent. He restarted the app, then his phone, but to no avail. The signal was gone, and he was lost.

Storm clouds began to gather on the horizon.


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you for the reviews, follows and favorites! Now the plot thickens..._

Chapter 3.

7 pm, London

Greg Lestrade knocked at the door of 221B Baker Street a third time. He knew Sherlock was inside, he'd been told as much by Mrs. Hudson. But in typical stroppy fashion, the resident of the flat was refusing to give him the courtesy of a response. Annoyed, Greg pushed the door open.

Sherlock was reclining on his couch, hands in prayer-like repose under his chin.

"Go away, Lestrade," Sherlock said, without opening his eyes. "I'm busy and don't have time to rescue Scotland Yard from its incompetence tonight."

"How'd you know it was me?" asked Greg.

"Your step. Heavier than Donovan's, lighter than John's." Sherlock still hadn't opened his eyes. "And why are you still here? I said, go away."

"Sherlock," Greg began.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he sat up. "Unless you're going to tell me about a multitude of murders in a house full of locked rooms, Lestrade, I don't want to hear it."

"It's not about murder, Sherlock. It's about you. I got this delivered to me today." Greg held out a manila envelope. "Didn't know what it was, it wasn't marked. As soon as I realized what it was about, I stopped reading, I promise."

Sherlock rose and snatched the envelope from Greg's hand. After a brief glance at its blank exterior, he shook out its contents, then froze.

A photograph fell onto the floor. It showed Sherlock at a young age, battered and bruised. An open wound ran across his temple and blood had flowed from his nose, drying just above his lip.

"That's you, yeah?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock didn't reply. Instead, he slowly drew out a sheet of paper from the envelope.

"Dear Sherlock," it began. "If you're reading this, then I'm dead. Isn't that how the saying goes? Oh, well, I won't let a little thing like death get in the way of a good time. Not when there is still so much I can do to make your life miserable. Because if you're reading this, then I assume you're still alive.

Can't let you get away with that.

Don't you just love this photo? I was so pleased to find it in the archives of a police station in Middlesex. Made for some entertaining reading, not something you expect in Middlesex.

Beaten up as a child, oh my. Poor little Sherlock. They stuck your head in the toilet too. And poured booze down your throat—that's what really caught the attention of the local constabulary.

Popular, were you? Seeing how heavily defended you are now, with your snappy suits and superior attitude, I can imagine that you were the life of the party as a kid. At least for the bullies. Bet they had a field day with you, over and over again.

Oh, and Lestrade? All your defenses won't work so well with him after he knows a little more about baby Sherlock and the big boys of Harrow. He knows now just how easy it is to huff and puff and blow your house down.

But keep your eye on the ball, if you can. All those shiny satellites in the sky are just the beginning…what will be more important to you, I wonder? Your defenses or the world's?

I once said I owed you a fairy tale, Sherlock. Here comes the big, bad wolf.

Love,

Jim Moriarty"

Without looking up, Sherlock said, "Get out."

"Sherlock, no one cares about this stuff. I certainly don't, I just thought you should know-"

"OUT!", roared Sherlock.

Greg took a couple of steps backward then spoke again. "This changes nothing, Sherlock. Nothing."

Having the distinct impression that Sherlock was about to strike him, Greg wisely retreated. Sherlock listened to his steps fade away but didn't move until he heard the front door to 221B close. As soon as it snapped shut, Sherlock swiftly grabbed the photo, walked to the flat's fireplace and threw it in. The fire consumed it as he dropped into his armchair, staring emptily at John's chair across from him. If his hands shook slightly, he didn't notice.

8 am, San Diego

In a bunker at Miramar Naval Air Station, tensions were high.

"We've lost contact, sir," said a young airman. "It appears that our satellite communication system is down."

"That's unacceptable. Re-establish communication immediately or at least get a position on the drones. Where were they last?" A harried-looking Colonel ran a hand through his hair as he glared at his unfortunate pilot squadron. Every one of the 10 men and women on duty wished devoutly that they'd come down sick that morning.

Another squadron member spoke up. "We had them over Kunduz in Afghanistan, sir. They were on a reconnaissance mission, collecting data regarding the Taliban threat to the city."

"Yes, Lieutenant, I'm quite aware of their mission. What I don't know is where they are now. Doesn't anyone have an idea?"

Deafening silence answered him. Sighing, he picked up a phone.

"The President will need to hear about this," he said to the person who picked up. "He'll want to warn the base at Khandahar." The Colonel's eyes opened wide as he listened to the response.

"What do you mean, all communications to outside of the country are down?"

9:30 am, Washington DC/ 5:30 pm, London

The President of the United States and the Prime Minister of England were busy. Their respective crisis teams gathered as the news of the satellite communication failures in both countries and around the world became eclipsed by other news: the loss of the Global Positioning System.

Most people think of GPS as a convenient way to figure out how to get from point A to B without getting hopelessly lost along the way. But its utility had wider implications: delivery services relied on it, emergency responders reached their destinations more quickly, planes were able to land on isolated runways and other vehicles could be readily tracked and traced. Without GPS, all of those systems were rapidly grinding to a halt.

"Where is he, Mycroft?" demanded the deputy Prime Minister. Ordinarily, the man wouldn't risk attracting Mycroft's ire, but his nerves were frayed.

"My brother will be here in due course," Mycroft said icily. "He's only just been asked to join us."

"I, for one, am still concerned about having Sherlock Holmes participate in this endeavor. He is, after all, a criminal. Whether he should have been allowed to return to freedom in England is still a very open question in my mind." A pompous gentlemen with apparently few concerns about annoying Mycroft spoke. "Besides, I'm not sure why we need him. This isn't a murder, so is well outside of his expertise."

Mycroft leveled a look on the speaker which could freeze boiling water. "I assure you, there is little which is outside of my brother's realm of competence. And there is much which is outside the realm of theirs." Mycroft gestured toward a hive of workers scurrying between computer screens. "However, if this team would prefer to do without his assistance, that can be arranged."

Lady Smallwood, the head of the investigation group, intervened. "That is enough, Horace, Mycroft. The decision to pardon Sherlock Holmes and seek his input in this matter has been made. It is not open to debate. We have more important things to focus on, don't you agree?"

As those in the room who had been distracted by the scuffle turned back to their work, Sherlock arrived. He was neatly dressed, as usual, and appeared quite normal to everyone except Mycroft. The latter could see just a bit of dishevelment about Sherlock's collar and cuffs, and a tightness around his eyes.

"Tell me what you have," barked Sherlock to the room at large. "And hurry up, I haven't got all day."

Mycroft's eyebrows raised. Sherlock's natural tendency toward rudeness was being put on full display. He must be unsettled about something.

"Mr. Holmes," answered Lady Smallwood. "Won't you have a seat?"

"Unnecessary," Sherlock snapped. "I'm sure you appreciate the urgency here, Lady Smallwood. If we lose GPS entirely, we're looking at a widespread infrastructure collapse. Email and internet will be the tip of the iceburg. Industries which depend on electronic data will begin to crumble. I predict that the investment markets will be first to go." Sherlock smiled, which made more than a few people around the table shudder.

Mycroft stepped forward before a battle could break out with his brother at its center. "As you may know, Sherlock, there are dozens of satellites orbiting earth which are devoted to the global positioning system. At least 30 were launched and are operated by the United States. It is that set which is being impacted by this current attack."

"Attack?", echoed Sherlock.

"Yes, that is the most appropriate word, I'm afraid. The satellites aren't simply having their function subverted, as with the television transmissions. Instead, they are no longer working at all. As of last count provided by the US, 15 were offline. It is a developing disaster of epic proportions, as you have so kindly pointed out."

Sherlock smirked.

"We need you, brother dear, to provide some insight as to where the attack may have begun. If we can find the initiation point, it may be possible to stop further losses to the system."

Sherlock nodded. "Florida," he said.

"What?" Lady Smallwood said. Mycroft's adversary Horace huffed, "Oh, come now. How on earth could you know that?"

Sherlock didn't spare the man a glance. He turned instead to Lady Smallwood.

"This isn't just an attack on space assets. I know who's behind it and it's personal, it's a message intended for me."

"Sherlock," said Mycroft warningly.

"Yes, Mycroft, it is. But if it makes you happier, it hardly matters who is behind it. Only that the effort does have some connection to me." Sherlock directed his attention back to Lady Smallwood.

"The only place I've ever lived in the United States is Florida, right near Cape Canaveral. I think you'll find that the US often launches GPS satellites from there, hence it is where our story here began. Don't take my word for it, I'm sure a few phone calls will confirm my theory."

Lady Smallwood sat for some moments, then nodded. She began giving orders to others around her to contact NASA at Cape Canaveral to launch an investigation.

Sherlock made to leave, but Mycroft snagged his arm.

"What is wrong? And what message could this possibly be sending to you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't respond for so long that Mycroft became sure he wouldn't answer. Then he spoke softly, addressing only Mycroft's latter question.

"That my past makes me vulnerable." Sherlock pulled his arm away and left the room.

10:00 am, London

In St. Bartholomew's Hospital across London, pathologist Molly Hooper received a delivery. She placed the plain manila envelope on her desk and reached for a letter opener.

At first, the envelope appeared to be empty. Then a newspaper clipping fluttered out. Molly skimmed through it and gasped.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4.

10:20 am, London

Molly clamped her hand over her mouth as she read the newspaper clipping which was in the envelope she received:

"May 17, 2006. A drug bust in Brixton snagged an unusual target on Sunday evening. One of the several men and women arrested on charges of drug possession in an abandoned house on Buckner Road is allegedly a relative of an employee of MI6.

This member of MI6, who wasn't identified at the time of this report, is said to be very influential within the agency as well as in the British Government at large. The identity of the government employee is not known, but the person arrested is William Holmes of Montague Street in the Marylebone district, age 31.

Mr. Holmes was said to be under the influence, and in possession, of a significant quantity of heroin. He is alleged to have been selling it to others in the flop house as well as to the public. Since the offense involves alleged possession and sale of Class A drugs, Mr. Holmes faces a potential sentence of life in prison.

'A bunch of low-lifes, that's what we found in that house. Junkies, all of them. But if this one guy has connections at the highest levels of the government, he's more dangerous than the average druggie. Who knows what secrets he might have access to—and whether he's sold them along with the drugs?', said Constable Sally Donovan of Scotland Yard, who participated in the raid.

MI6 had no comment when contacted about this story."

Molly stared in horror at the paper. The William Holmes referred to must be Sherlock, she'd seen his given first name on the nursing roster when he'd been shot. His prior drug use was horrible, of course, but she'd never heard even a whisper about him _selling_ the things. The man she knew, or thought she knew, wouldn't do that. Or would he?

Molly laid the clipping down and brought up Google on her desktop computer. Her fingers hovered indecisively over the keyboard for a few moments. Was she really going to cyberstalk Sherlock's past? This wasn't like searching for any mention of an old girlfriend. It was a serious matter, one she doubted he'd shared with anyone, even John.

Almost against her will, she quickly typed in "William Holmes", "drug bust" and "Brixton". Nothing. Trying "Class A drugs", "possession" and "sale" in various combinations similarly failed.

She looked back at the article on her desk. It was from the Guardian and appeared authentic, but surely it would be a simple matter to knock up a fake clipping? In for a penny, in for a pound—she searched the Guardian's archives for the story. It wasn't found.

If the article wasn't real, why on earth would someone go to the trouble of creating it? And why send it to her? If it had happened, the bust had occurred long before she ever met Sherlock Holmes. He'd certainly not been involved in anything like it since, so should she really care what something which might have happened 8 years before?

" _He hasn't been involved in drug dens while I've known him, not like that…"_ Molly reassured herself. Then a caveat followed. " _So far as I know."_ She started guiltily. This speculation about Sherlock, a friend if no longer the man she loved (she hoped), was awful.

Molly folded the clipping into half and slipped it back inside the envelope, the better to keep it from prying eyes. The buzzer which heralded a new arrival in the morgue sounded, and she rushed from her office.

"Sherlock!" He was the last person she expected to see and, at the moment, the last she'd hoped to.

"Molly, I-", Sherlock broke off, his eyes locked onto the manila envelope still in Molly's hand. Several long seconds went by, during which neither spoke and Sherlock didn't blink. Finally, he ended the silence.

"When?", he asked flatly.

"Wha—what?", Molly responded.

"When. Did. That. Arrive?", he bit off.

"What?", Molly repeated.

Sherlock marched toward her. For a moment, she shrank away from him then stopped, horrified at herself.

As thoughtless and even nasty as Sherlock had been toward her from time to time in their acquaintance, she had never once felt physically threatened by him. Was she so influenced by one horrid story from long ago that she was afraid of him now? If he was truly her friend, surely her perspective on him shouldn't be so easily changed.

Molly took a deep breath to settle down and extended the envelope to Sherlock. He didn't take it at first, peering hard at her instead. She had the terrible feeling that he knew exactly what she'd been thinking, and felt ashamed. If she didn't know him better, she'd say that Sherlock looked hurt.

Breaking off eye contact, Sherlock grabbed the envelope and shook out its contents almost violently. He appeared to stop breathing as he gazed at the clipping.

Finally, he spoke. "Mycroft," he said quietly.

"What?", asked Molly, painfully aware that it was the only word she'd used since Sherlock arrived.

Sherlock continued to look at the paper in his hand. "That's why you couldn't find this when you searched for it online."

Molly began to shake her head in denial, then realized it was hopeless. Of course Sherlock would be able to tell that she'd Googled the story. He could probably tell her entire search history by her shoes.

"When this happened," he began. Molly inhaled sharply despite herself. It was _true_?

"No, I wasn't selling drugs, Molly. But I was using them and," he shook the paper, "I was there during the bust. Mycroft made it all go away—I don't think it even took him more than a couple of hours before every trace of the story vanished for good." He smiled sardonically. "Sally Donovan has hated me ever since—she thought she'd stumbled on something that could fast track her to Sergeant."

"But how? And why?" Molly was uncomfortably aware that she was being inarticulate, but Sherlock's explanation was bizarre, even for him.

"How is simple. Mycroft can make people disappear in hours, making a sordid story about his little brother go away was child's play. Which is why—I'm his brother, and something so harmful to his career as an addict in the family couldn't be tolerated." Sherlock's tone was cold.

"He even erased me, to some extent. I started going by Sherlock rather than William that same day. Couldn't have anyone connecting me to a major drug bust, although why he couldn't have picked my other Christian name for me to use is a mystery even I can't solve."

With that, Sherlock seemed to lose all interest in the conversation. He dropped the envelope on nearest lab table and installed himself in a seat before a wide-field microscope. Molly looked on in amazement as he pulled an envelope from his pocket which was the twin of the one she'd received. He began examining it from corner to corner.

"Did someone send that to you?" she asked.

"Lestrade got it," Sherlock said distractedly.

"Was…was there a copy of the article in it too?" she added.

Sherlock didn't respond. Instead, he pulled out his phone as it began to ring. With a brief look at the screen, he swiped to reject the call and returned to the microscope. The phone rang again, and the call rejection was repeated twice before Sherlock turned it off.

"I'll just, um," Molly stammered.

"Go autopsy someone, Molly," Sherlock commanded without looking at her.

"Yes," she replied, and retreated to a body laid out on another table. The two worked in silence until the door to the morgue suddenly banged open.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft barked. "Why aren't you answering your…" He stopped, looking at the envelopes. "Oh, I see." Sherlock spared him a quick glance before returning his attention to the microscope. "Well, that is no reason to ignore my calls. If you'd forgotten, brother mine, there is a bit of a crisis unfolding, one which you are supposed to be attending to."

"Busy," answered Sherlock.

Mycroft ground his teeth. "No. What you are is on thin ice, with the government and me."

"You are the government, Mycroft. Now go away," Sherlock said dismissively. "I am working on your communications issue, but I have to settle this matter first." He waved toward the envelope on the microscope stage, but didn't remove his gaze from it.

"Sherlock, you will stop this nonsense and pay attention to the rather important matter of Britain's traffic signals no longer working. Not to mention the collapse of weather forecasting around the world." Mycroft snapped.

"What?" Molly asked, no longer caring if she was repeating herself.

Mycroft glanced her way but didn't reply. Sherlock sighed and turned toward his brother.

"Why does our inability to predict, usually wrongly, if it's going to rain make any real difference? And, god knows, traffic in London can't get much worse than it already is," he said.

"Because, dear brother, as we speak, airplanes are making their way with no idea whether they are flying into bad weather, turbulence, or clear skies. Without accurate forecasting, airlines are canceling flights right and left." Mycroft stepped closer. "The passengers who are still in the air may have rough journeys, but they are the lucky ones. Everyone else is stranded—whether they intended to fly, drive or sail an ocean."

"Surely making certain that the entire United Kingdom doesn't grind to a halt is worth a bit of your precious time?", Mycroft huffed, voice dripping with condescension.

Sherlock stood. "Moriarty isn't just hacking into satellite systems, he's breaking into my life. There is a connection, Mycroft, I just have to find it." Sherlock gestured to the envelopes.

"He's disseminating information which goes well beyond the few tidbits you fed him before the trial. These are things no one should be able to find easily or at all, yet here they are. Harrow, Brixton…"

At the latter name, Mycroft's eyebrows shot up.

"He's sending pieces of me to people I know to damage their perception of who I am. Every time something new happens up there," Sherlock waved toward the ceiling, "Another piece of the puzzle gets snapped into place."

Sherlock began to pace, words spilling out. "He's trying to destroy me, but this time by exposing my deepest personal secrets in a way he hopes will isolate me from…" He stopped and glanced at Molly. The word 'friends' caught in his throat. "People I know."

"It's a race to the finish—what will happen first? Make everyone I know hate me, or completely crash our communication networks? When I take a step closer to stopping one of those things, he—or the people working for him-picks up speed on the other. He's trying to distract me. So if I can find a way to stop them from tearing me apart, I'll find the way to resolve the other problems as well."

"I could never hate you," Molly interjected. "Never."

"Oh?", answered Sherlock. "But you thought I'd strike you for a moment, didn't you? _Once an idea takes hold here,_ " Sherlock said, tapping his forehead. " _You can't kill it._ Even you, Molly Hooper, wouldn't choose to spend time with someone you're afraid of. _Ipso facto,_ Moriarty wins."

Mycroft ignored the exchange, returning to the topic of most interest to him. "That is all well and good, Sherlock, but the fact remains that this is no time for distractions. Not only is the health of the UK and US at risk, not to mention that of the world, but your freedom is too. Start producing results, or even I won't be able to keep you off that plane."

"Thought you were getting me a pardon. Rubbish big brother," Sherlock muttered as he sat down again. Both Holmes ignored Molly's squeak of "Plane?". Instead, Sherlock focused the microscope as Mycroft walked to the door with a sigh.

"Tick, tock, little brother," he said. "Tick, tock."

5 pm, Beijing

Jack Dong pointed impatiently at a pile of papers. His companion, a young Chinese woman, shook her head.

"Ràng zìjǐ lěngjìng xiàlái. Àn jìhuà tā shì yīqiè huì" [Calm yourself. It is all going according to plan.]

Dong frowned and turned to his laptop computer screen. He pointed at it and the woman smiled.

"Tā huì āi nǐ gūgū, Shān Jiāngjūn de sǐ. Wǒ bǎozhèng." [He will suffer for the death of your aunt, General Shan. I promise it.]

A photo of Sherlock flickered as Dong closed the laptop.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5.

7 pm, London

 _Secrets_. Governments stealing them while publicly bemoaning the practice. Companies stealing them while suing for intellectual property theft. Hackers stealing them while claiming the high road. Secrets made the world go 'round.

 _My secrets._

Sherlock shook his head, the thought like a pesky fly which wouldn't leave him alone. There was one more secret that Moriarty's minions could release to his friends and it was a whopper. So far, the envelopes had gone to people of increasing significance to him, so John was the next logical target. And each envelope's delivery had followed on the heels of an escalation in the attack on satellite communications.

The last attack on the GPS satellites was now 12 hours old, so an envelope would certainly be coming soon. If he tried to stop John from opening it, there would be questions, lots of them. No time for that—Sherlock had a global crisis to help contain. He opted for a quick result.

YOU'LL GET AN ENVELOPE, PROBABLY WITHIN HOURS. BRING IT TO ME, DON'T OPEN IT.—SH

ODD REQUEST, MATE. YOU WANT ME TO BRING YOU MY MAIL?—JW

NO. A MANILA ENVELOPE. UNMARKED. IT'S IMPORTANT.—SH

FINE. WOULD THERE BE ANY POINT TO ME ASKING WHAT'S GOING ON?-JW

John didn't expect or get an answer.

Sherlock dropped his phone onto his couch and returned his attention to the wall behind it. The wallpaper was nearly obscured in paper and photographs. Somewhere in that information was a link between the attack on Sherlock's past and the assault on global communications.

Belt and suspenders was Moriarty's MO when it came to plans. He'd wanted Sherlock to end his own life when his professional reputation failed before Moriarty's suicide but, if he couldn't have that, reducing Sherlock's personal life to rubble would be an acceptable alternative. Engineering that collapse to coincide with massive losses to other people would be frosting on the cake.

The plan could work because, despite all such evidence to the contrary, Sherlock still didn't believe that his friends could truly accept any weakness on his part. His well-defended persona was the result of decades of sheer effort. Discipline in mind and body was his mantra.

In an impressive exercise in self-delusion, Sherlock was convinced that, if his armor slipped, the image of himself reflected others' eyes would be irrevocably damaged. To avoid that, his weapon of choice was the first strike—put others' frailties under a spotlight to hide or overshadow his own. Being alone was a price he felt he'd always somehow pay for being extraordinary.

Yet in his chemically induced dreams on the plane, Greg Lestrade uncomplainingly dug into an old grave at his side, simply because Sherlock had asked for his help. Mary Morstan had gracefully hacked into MI6—on a cell phone, no less—to give him information. John Watson had cared enough to shout him down when he offered excuses for his drug use. And Mycroft had insisted on a list of everything he'd taken, honoring a long-standing agreement between the brothers to ensure Sherlock's survival in case of a lapse in sobriety. They all seemed to care so much…

Sherlock slapped himself, making his eyes water. This self-indulgent wallowing wouldn't do. He needed to regain his concentration, focus on the case.

Instead, his train of thought was derailed by the sound of a door clicking open down the hall. Footsteps preceded the appearance of the last person he expected to see in his living room.

Naked as the day she was born except for a pair of shiny Louboutins with 4 inch heels, Irene Adler smiled at Sherlock.

"Surprise," she said, smirking. Sherlock just stared. "Cat got your tongue?"

It had been almost a year since he'd seen her last. And five years since she'd first met him while wearing nothing in her London flat.

Slowly—much more slowly than he'd like—his brain came out of the fog that had descended on him at the sight of Irene. It registered with him that her body hadn't changed at all since that first meeting. Which made no sense, given that he'd seen her body several times the year before and knew it to be thinner, possibly due to her having retreated from her previous life as a dominatrix when a plan to blackmail the British government (in the form of Mycroft) had failed.

"You're not real," he said.

"And you're not getting the point," she responded.

"Which is?" he asked.

"Oh, it's no fun if I have to tell you. Guess," she teased.

"You're a distraction," he ventured.

"Thank you," she purred. "Lots of those for you these days, though, I'm afraid." She advanced until her body nearly touched his. He fought the urge to take a step forward.

"I have to find out how the envelopes tie into the cyberattacks. I can't afford distractions."

"And yet, here I am," Irene pointed out.

"As am I." Another voice came from the kitchen. Molly Hooper appeared in the entrance. Sherlock swung his eyes wildly between the two women, more relieved than he'd admit that faux Irene was now fully clothed.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Sherlock!" protested his mother, who was standing on the landing to his flat. "Manners."

" _What. Are. You. All. Doing. Here_?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"Think," ordered Irene. "It really is obvious, as plain as the nose on your face. Or the ones on ours—what do we all share in common?"

He stared, a perfectly juvenile response which would be beneath him to utter nearly escaping his lips. He shook his head, then a better answer came to him.

"You're all women," he said.

"Oh, brilliant, Sherl," snarked Janine, who was now lounging against a doorframe.

"Does that tie into the case, dear?" asked Mrs. Hudson from the stairs.

"I don't know, I don't know…" he muttered as he turned his gaze from one to another of them. Sally Donovan spoke up from a corner.

"Come on, freak," she stammered slightly, then amended her statement with a glance toward Sherlock's mother. "I mean, Holmes. _The word of the day is_ ' _woman_ ' _._ You're so damn smart, figure out why. We can't wait on you all day."

Mycroft's assistant Anthea then stepped forward from the fireplace to hand Sherlock his phone. A series of text messages were displayed on the screen:

FOOD SHORTAGES AT SITES THROUGOUT LONDON AND BEYOND. INVENTORY SYSTEMS DOWN. SHIPPING INTERRUPTED. PLANES STILL GROUNDED. YOUR INPUT NOW WOULD BE APPRECIATED, LITTLE BROTHER.—MH.

I AM NOT AMUSED BY YOUR SILENCE. THIS IS NOT A GAME. I WILL NO LONGER BE ABLE TO INTERVENE ON YOUR BEHALF IF YOU DO NOT RESPOND. PARDONS MAY BE REVOKED, SHERLOCK.—MH

DO YOU SIMPLY NOT GIVE A DAMN WHAT HAPPENS TO THIS COUNTRY OR YOURSELF?-MH

Under other circumstances, Mycroft's overflowing frustration might have pleased him. But Anthea's voice broke his concentration.

"Tick tock, Sherlock."

He gasped, coming to awareness as if cold water had been poured over him. His phone was ringing. He grabbed it, swiping across the screen to answer the call and close the messaging app. As he did so, he looked around the room. It was empty.

"Sherlock," said John. "I got the envelope. I'm just out the door, should I bring it over?"

When John arrived, the living room of 221B looked like the aftermath of an explosion. Papers were scattered across every surface and photographs were pinned haphazardly to the walls. Open laptops ringed the room, each with a different display. The kitchen table had been dragged into the room and pressed into service as a makeshift fort by way of a blanket hanging over it. By all appearances, the flat had been attacked by a herd of deranged toddlers.

Sherlock was seated under the table, legs criss-crossed.

"Sherlock?" came John's voice. "What in the world has happened here? Are we playing hide-and-seek?" John's head popped under the blanket.

"I needed the privacy," he said.

"From what, the skull? There's no one here," John answered.

"To go deeper," Sherlock said vaguely.

John frowned. "Last time you 'went deep', you nearly overdosed. Let's give that a wide berth this time, shall we?"

Sherlock hummed but said nothing.

"Do you know what's going on out there? There's a run on the shops, people buying up cases of water, food, even toilet paper. And there's no buses running because of the traffic lights. It's madness—one bloke tried to get on the tube with a wheelbarrow full of groceries. A wheelbarrow! All it will take is one good fight and there'll be panic in the streets." John shook his head as he pulled his gloves off.

"What do we have here, then?" he asked, gesturing to the wall. He peered more closely at several of the photographs. "Wait, is that the Chinese code? From Soo Lin's case?"

"Well-spotted," said Sherlock with a touch of acerbity.

"Why-", he began.

"Do you know that you've asked 10 questions since you came in the door?" Sherlock interrupted, rising from the floor.

John settled into his armchair. "All right, why don't you just tell me what this is all about and save us the Q & A. Go on, enlighten me."

"China, John. This all somehow ties into it. The Chinese government has been sponsoring wholesale cyberattacks on us, the United States, literally every major Western country and a few non-Western ones for ages. It's their version of a business plan." He plucked a handful of papers from the floor.

"Over the last 5 years, there has been a massive increase in those incursions .All alleged or proven to have been the work of Chinese operatives, many of whom work in Western tech companies like Amazon and Google." Sherlock shoved a newspaper article into John's hands.

"China professes concern about these incidents from time to time, of course. Gives them plausible deniability. But the pace of the hacking has increased sharply over the past few months. There's a pattern emerging here—building up to something big."

"The satellite attacks," John said wonderingly.

"Yes," Sherlock answered. "I think so."

"You think it has something to do with the Black Lotus?" John said, glancing at the photos. He had taken one of the most prominent shots, an image of a black brick wall covered in bright yellow spray paint. The paint formed Chinese numerals, which had been key to an earlier case John had called "The Blind Banker" on his blog.

The numerals were code for letters of messages sent by the Black Lotus, a Chinese criminal gang. Decoding the messages had led to solving the crime, but at the cost of several deaths, including that of a young woman they'd failed to protect. The memory of her loss was still painful.

"What makes you so certain?" John asked.

"These," Sherlock said, pulling two manila envelopes out from under a laptop on his desk. "They were sent to Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade yesterday. Their postmark is London. But the brand of envelope is Zhuziang Paper, which is only sold in China."

"This looks the same," John exclaimed, pulling a folded manila envelope from his pocket. "It was at our doorstep when Mary and I got home tonight. Do you know what's in this?"

"Do you?" asked Sherlock softly, eyes fixed on the envelope.

"No, didn't open it yet. It has your name on it too." John turned it over. ' _For Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson_ ' had been scrawled across the front in black marker.

"None of the others were marked," Sherlock murmured.

"So, shall we open it, then?," John said, beginning to pull at the flap.

"No!" barked Sherlock, grabbing at the envelope. As he did so, one side of his dressing gown swung up, following his arm.

A clear bag of white powder popped out of the gown's pocket and fell to the floor. Both men stopped to stare at it. Neither said a word, simply looking at the bag as if waiting for it to do something. Had it gotten up and danced, John couldn't have looked more shocked. That gave Sherlock the time he needed to recover and scoop the packet up.

The men's eyes met. "Drop it," said John in an unambiguous order.

"No." Sherlock refused, returning the packet to his pocket.

"Even you can't be a big enough idiot to get high again, Sherlock. Not again. Give it to me." John demanded.

Sherlock said nothing, instead turning his back on John to pick up a laptop. He froze at the sound of paper tearing.

John's voice was quiet and firm. "There's something in here you don't want me to see. Hand over the drugs, or I look at it."

Sherlock spun around, eyes blazing. "Go ahead. I don't care." He was vaguely aware of sounding like a sulky child. "In fact, why don't you stop inflicting your moral high ground on me and take that on home."

He gestured to the envelope. "You and Mary can have a nice long read. Maybe send a copy around on the internet." Sherlock was breathing hard at this point. "Oh, wait. There isn't going to be an internet anymore. Not unless I solve this case, _which I need these to do_!"

He pulled the bag from his pocket and swept the blanket off of the kitchen table in the middle of the room. With a quick swipe, he snatched up the box and snapped it open. It contained injection tools—a needle, spoon and lighter.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John breathed. His face flushed with anger and time stood still for a moment. "Right," said John, and pulled a sheet from the envelope.

When he looked back up, Sherlock had the expression of a kicked puppy. In all the times that John had seen his friend pretend to be vulnerable, and the far fewer occasions when he actually had been, he'd never seen anything like this. Sherlock's face was snow white, his eyes wide, and his lips were slightly parted.

The silence between the two men stretched out. John broke it.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I won't-".

Sherlock interrupted. "It doesn't matter." He spun around, dropping into his armchair and closing his eyes. John moved toward him.

"Sherlock," he began, then stalled. Words would come, but the right ones seemed elusive.

Slowly, Sherlock's hand came up. John gently lifted the box and bag from it. He replaced them with the envelope.

"Go," said Sherlock flatly. "Take those with you."

"No, we'll figure this out. We'll-"

Sherlock cut him off again. "Go," he said, this time interjecting a note of steel into his voice.

John sighed. There was no arguing with Sherlock when he was in this state of mind.

"I'll dispose of this, shall I? Then I'll be back," John said. Sherlock didn't reply, and John slowly walked to the door.

A look back confirmed that the envelope was in Sherlock's lap. His eyes were now open, but unseeing, a thousand yard stare into nothing.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6.

8 pm, London.

Sherlock was lost in a trance, fingers tracing random patterns over the envelope in his lap. Its contents wouldn't necessarily be considered explosive, at least not to anyone else. But to him, they represented nothing less than the loss of a lifetime's carefully cultivated mystique. Sherlock Holmes was above the impulses which drove lesser beings. Even food and sleep were bodily demands which he could push away at will. Relationships, with all their inherent messiness, were nothing he needed or wanted.

But that hadn't always been true.

He had just turned 18, she was 24. An age difference which would be barely noticeable at a later time of life was disastrous at this one. Especially since she had been his teacher.

She was different. A novice teacher on her first classroom assignment, Katherine noticed Sherlock. She praised his assignments and acknowledged his insights. In turn, he was slightly less rude to her than to his other instructors.

In time, Sherlock agreed to help her grade papers, in part because the other options for his time were few. Anything which required leaving his room risked interaction, which was seldom worth the effort. With Katherine, he could keep conversation to a minimum while enjoying the documented idiocy of his classmates. The intimacy of a shared task in a quiet room over numerous evenings escaped him.

Then she kissed him. Surely, she should have known better. Ordinarily, Sherlock would have shredded her pride for breaching his barriers. But he was young and hadn't yet acquired the control over his body that he'd have in adulthood. Instead, he reacted as any other boy swimming in a stew of hormones would, complete with a mild case of unrequited devotion.

Had Sherlock been a liked or even well-tolerated child, the school might have drawn a much deeper line in the sand. As it was, Katherine simply moved onto another position without even a goodbye. Sherlock quietly graduated and shut the door on relationships behind him (at least until Irene Adler briefly knocked it ajar two decades later).

From John Watson's point of view, Sherlock was certainly celibate and very likely asexual. Sherlock preferred it that way. If John knew about Sherlock's experiences with women, he'd have two responses.

First, he'd begin a very unwelcome matchmaking campaign. Sherlock shuddered at the thought of a parade of women being brought to his door, specially curated for him by John and Mary. Second, John would decide that he at last knew what made Sherlock tick, why he eschewed relationships with women.

It was the latter possibility which Sherlock found most abhorrent of the two. He needed to be inscrutable to those around him, even to his closest friend. Not quite knowing why Sherlock acted as he did ensured that mistakes or weaknesses would be written off as process.

More importantly, while his experiences may have shaped him, they didn't make him who he was. Sherlock made himself, and wouldn't allow anyone—especially John—to think otherwise. It would make him seem ordinary, just like other men, no one special enough for John to admire. So having John see him as a solved puzzle, a human Rubik's cube with all the colors in place, was to be avoided at all costs.

Then there was the other thing, the behavior he knew would damn him in John's eyes. Not even Mycroft knew…no, disclosure was simply unacceptable.

With a jerk, Sherlock leapt from his chair and threw on his coat and scarf. The sooner he ruined Moriarty's plans, the better. No more case, no more letters. It was time to end this.

As he left the building, Sherlock threw up his hand and, as usual, a cab immediately swung toward the curb. Before it could stop, however, a blast from the horn of a black Jaguar warned it off. Startled, the cabbie veered back out into traffic, nearly clipping the front end of a passing lorry. Sherlock snorted in disgust and turned toward the car.

"I thought you were supposed to be serving British citizens, not killing them," Sherlock snarked through the window Mycroft rolled down as the car stopped.

"My driver's record is clean of any incidents, Sherlock," Mycroft responded.

"Hardly the point, brother mine," Sherlock said from his spot on the pavement, still several feet from the car. "You've managed to keep my 'record' clean of all kinds of interesting offenses. Doesn't mean they didn't happen."

"Yes, and let's not make me regret that, shall we?" Mycroft sighed. "Get in the car, please."

"Why should I?" began Sherlock, then shook his head. "Oh, fine. I didn't have any cash for a cab on me anyway." He climbed into the car's backseat. "What do you want, Mycroft?"

"Against all odds your deduction about the Florida connection was correct. A virus was tracked back to an IP address for computers in Cocoa Beach which infected the signal maintenance systems for the GPS satellite network."

"Have you been able to trace the source of the virus?" asked Sherlock.

"We know that it didn't originate in the U.S. From its structure, the consensus is that it was likely written by Chinese hackers, but that information is awaiting confirmation."

"Consider it confirmed," Sherlock instructed.

"I can't go to Whitehall with one of your hunches, Sherlock," Mycroft said with mock patience. "But there is additional evidence."

"I don't have hunches," huffed Sherlock. "What evidence?"

"A message was delivered for you." Mycroft thumbed the voice recorder app open on his phone and handed it over to Sherlock. "You need to hear this."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He pressed play on the phone and a voice filled the car.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You don't know me, but I know you all too well. It is my personal mission to make certain that others learn the truth about who you really are. So they leave you as you should be, alone." The voice was cultured, with only the slightest of Chinese accents.

"You see, I know about being alone. And you are the reason why I learned the lesson so well." The man's voice became several degrees colder. "I was raised by my aunt. She lived her entire life with me in Beijing. She was my only family, my world. Then she went to London and met you. She was dead within days, killed by her employer. All because you got in the way of his plans and prevented her from doing her job." A few moments of silence followed, then the voice continued.

"In China, we believe that there are good and bad endings to life. Which you suffer will determine your afterlife. Thanks to you, my aunt had a bad ending. She was killed for letting you live." Mycroft raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, who didn't remove his gaze from the phone.

"But you won't have the honor of a good death, or even the relief of death at all. Instead, you will lose every person in your life who might give you any degree of comfort. Every friend, every family member, all will be alienated from you. If you replace them with another, I will make certain that relationship fails as well. If it does not fail, then we will take the person from you by other means." At this, Sherlock looked quickly at Mycroft, who nodded his acknowledgement that their parents were secured.

The voice became tinged with scorn. "You hold yourself out to the world as being invulnerable and brilliant, Mr. Holmes. Nonetheless, a few deluded souls have surrounded you with companionship. I will return you to your isolated reality. The people who admire you will know you for the weak, foolish person you are. They will leave you like rats from a sinking ship."

"Trust me when I tell you that every step you take will be a lonely one. When at death you look back on the emptiness that your existence has been, only then will you understand the pain you have brought to me. This will be your curse, to suffer as I do, with no means of recovery." The last words were said in a growl, followed by a click as the recording ended.

Mycroft turned his body toward Sherlock, trying to catch his eye. "You know something about who this is, yes?" he said softly.

Sherlock didn't react, instead staring ahead through the windshield.

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, this is utter nonsense. No one will care-".

Sherlock interrupted him. "She was pregnant," he said flatly.

"Excuse me?"

"Katherine. Before she left school, left town, she told me she was pregnant." Sherlock now turned toward Mycroft. "I did nothing. Just let her go. Don't tell me that is something John will overlook. Or Molly. Or-".

Mycroft interrupted him. "She wasn't."

"Say that again?" Sherlock fired back.

"Ms. Sutton. She was most assuredly not pregnant. You think I didn't follow up on her over the years? Do you imagine that she left the school out of the goodness of her heart? Of course not. She was a threat to you, Sherlock, and was neutralized accordingly. The pregnancy claim was just her way of anteing up for more money to go."

Sherlock snapped. "Why in the hell didn't you tell me? You let me think—".

"I didn't know that she had said anything to you about it, Sherlock. As soon as we—" Mycroft nodded. "Yes, our parents knew too." Sherlock looked away as the blood drained from his face. "As soon as she made her relationship with you known, I ensured that it would end for good. She had resigned and was leaving for new employment which I secured when the pregnancy claim came up. For another 10,000 pounds, that was a claim you weren't to know about." Mycroft shook his head. "It seems she deceived us. No honor among thieves or predators, I'm afraid. I'm sorry." Mycroft nearly reached out to Sherlock, then pulled his hand back at the last minute.

"It doesn't matter. Pregnant or not, I _thought_ she was and let her go. John is about to become a father. That was a failure on my part he won't forgive."

"As always, you fail to understand sentiment, Sherlock. You greatly underestimate Dr. Watson's devotion to you. He will understand a mistake of youth, I'm sure."

"No," said Sherlock, then he turned to Mycroft with an expression that said the topic was closed.

"In any event, I know who the message is from. It must be the nephew of General Shan. She was the woman behind the Black Lotus' murder of Soo Lin Yao in 2011. Soo Lin was a museum worker whose brother was part of a smuggling scheme run by Shan. Moriarty must have been behind it—I didn't know Shan was dead, but it makes sense. Disappointing Moriarty always did have a tendency to be fatal. The nephew must be the source of the attacks."

Mycroft nodded and took his phone back. "I'm afraid that others may require a bit more evidence before engaging with China over yet another cybersecurity breach. The Chinese government is still smarting over having to arrest the people behind last month's theft of data from the U.S. Office of Personnel, especially since several of them had government ties. It will be reluctant, to say the least, to reopen that particular can of worms so soon. But we can try to find him."

He dialed a number then began issuing instructions without preamble. As he spoke, Sherlock pulled the car door open.

Covering the mouthpiece, Mycroft hissed, "Where are you going?"

"I have my own ways of finding people. I'm not going to stand by and let my life be destroyed." He stepped out onto the curb. "Goodbye, brother mine. Don't hit anything on your way home. Wouldn't want to blemish your driver's 'clean record'."

Mycroft raised his voice just as Sherlock went to close the door. "You can't leave the country, Sherlock. You aren't allowed to travel outside of London yet."

Sherlock smiled grimly. "Who said I need to go anywhere? I'm the brilliant Sherlock Holmes," He said sarcastically. "They'll come to me."

Mycroft watched as Sherlock walked away. He returned his attention to his phone.

"Put level 5 surveillance on my brother too. I don't want him to sneeze without knowing about it, preferably in advance." Mycroft listened. "What should you expect him to do? Something very, very stupid, I'm afraid."


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N Another chapter so soon after the last! We're closing in on the end of the ride, folks. I have to roll my eyes a bit at having pulled the Blind Banker episode into this. It's not a favorite of mine but, as always, even on paper Sherlock does whatever he pleases!_

Chapter 7

London, 6 am

To say that the citizens of London were becoming testy would be a massive understatement. People who had gone their whole lives without raising their voices were suddenly slamming doors and snapping at other pedestrians on the street. People whose fuses were already short were shouting from nearly the moment they rose from bed in the morning. Without television, functioning transportation systems, any GPS use and only sporadic access to the internet, modern life was grinding to a halt.

Daily life was positively Victorian in nature. Had horses been readily available, carriages would have been making a sweeping return. The metropolis was only days away from papers announcing the news of the day from street corners again. On the upside, people no longer instantly knew every detail of each other's lives, which made more than a few quietly happier.

In the midst of such chaos, any distraction was a welcome one so long as it didn't involve loss of more treasured amenities. So it was that the appearance of identical yellow blobs of paint around London caught the public's imagination. Speculation as to the meaning and origin of the marks was rife. Most people put it down to bored vandals, while the less rational among the citizenry thought a conspiracy of sorts was afoot (though to what end, they couldn't say).

Only the residents of Chinatown recognized the symbols for what they were—ancient Chinese numerals of the sort rarely used outside of trinket shops in the neighborhood. But only a handful recognized the numerals as being part of a code, and fewer still knew that they were keyed to the first word on pages of the London A to Z guidebook. Properly deciphered, the coded phrase was simple: "Come to 221B Baker Street."

London, 7:30 am

Steps from his front door, John Watson stared in dismay at the cable box across the street. A yellow slash of paint crossed its surface. It was the same as the Black Lotus code he'd seen during his Blind Banker case with Sherlock, an image he'd hoped to never see again. He snatched his mobile phone from his pocket and dialed.

"Sherlock," he began.

"I know. Don't worry about it," his friend answered.

"How in the hell…never mind, I don't want to know. They're back, the Black Lotus. You've seen the code? There's one right outside my house," John said urgently.

Sherlock swore, which made John startle. For all his atrocious habits, Sherlock rarely used profanity. He seemed to think it beneath him.

"I'm sorry. It wasn't supposed to be anywhere near you," Sherlock groused.

"What…you mean…this is _you_? You put this symbol up? Why in God's name would you do that? And what do you mean 'anywhere near me'? They're somewhere else too?" John sputtered.

"Yes, of course. There's little point to posting a message if your intended recipient isn't likely to see it. But I'm afraid Raz got a little carried away, it sounds as though he distributed the code more widely than I'd intended," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock," said John, sounding pained. "Do I understand correctly that you had that paint-splattered delinquent spread Black Lotus code around London? Are you even more mad than I thought you were?"

"It was the quickest, surest way to reach them—and what do you mean, _more_ mad than you thought I am?"

"You're communicating with a murderous band of smugglers. How exactly is that not insane?" John asked. "And what are you saying to them anyway?"

"Well, I can hardly have a serious conversation with them through splotches of code, John. So I've asked them to come see me. I find that it's far more simple to cut to the chase in person." Sherlock sounded remarkably unperturbed for someone contemplating a meeting with people who once tried to kill him on several occasions.

John didn't respond. The silence from his end of the phone connection was deafening.

"John?" asked Sherlock. He could see that the call was still connected, so couldn't imagine why John was no longer speaking. "Are you there?"

After a few additional moments, John finally broke his silence.

"You bloody bastard," he growled.

"Sorry?" asked Sherlock.

"You heard me. At what point do you think it'll be enough? When you take one dose of poison too many? Or do you need to be strangled in your living room to feel alive? Unless you'd forgotten, there is a major crisis in this city. Your very freedom turns on helping to resolve it. Yet here you are, gearing up to play footsie with an Asian gang who'd love nothing more than to finish the job of killing you." John's tone became more clipped with every word.

"There is a connection to China—" started Sherlock.

" _I. Don't. Care_." snapped John. "There has to be another way, there always is. But every time—every damn time—you pick the way most likely to get you killed. Cabbie handing out poison? You line up to take some. A crazed psychopath is stalking you? You go meet him on a rooftop. A megalomaniac is playing God with people's secrets? You risk treason to force a showdown." John was breathing hard. "You know what, Sherlock? One day, maybe one day soon, you won't dodge the bullet."

"I seem to remember that being the case at least once," Sherlock said, with a tinge of condescension.

"No," John cut him off. "We're not playing this game. I sat not two days ago and watched you climb out of hell. And here you are, dancing on the edge again. You didn't even ask for help—and don't lie to me, I know Mycroft didn't know you planned to do this. You certainly didn't tell me about it." John sighed deeply.

"John," Sherlock said again, at last sounding worried.

"You're my best friend, Sherlock, but I can't do this anymore. I have a child coming and I can't spend every minute afraid for you. I'll help this time—if you'll bother to include me—but I can't trust you not to put your neck on the line again if you don't trust me enough to help prevent it from happening."

"I do trust you, John." Sherlock said quickly. "Come to Baker Street." He paused. "Please."

"It's not really a magic word, you know that, right? Saying please doesn't make everything better."

"Will you come?" Sherlock said quietly.

"Yes," answered John. "But if there are a bunch of Chinese criminals with swords there when I arrive, you're on your own."

As it happened, Baker Street was not beset with hordes of sword-wielding villains or anyone other than Sherlock when John arrived. There were a few people of apparent Chinese descent gathered outside, but they seemed to just be tourists responding to a curious invitation. Sherlock was not pleased at the lack of response to his artistic messages.

"What is wrong with the criminal classes these days, John?" he asked crankily.

John ignored the question. "Walk me through it, Sherlock. Are the Black Lotus behind the cyberattacks?"

"No," Sherlock said. "At least I don't think so. But someone close to them is, and they are our best shot at reaching him."

"Him?"

"Yes. The attack on the GPS satellites was traced to a Chinese hacker, possibly a group of them. One of them contacted us-"

"Us? You and…?"

"Mycroft."

"Not the governments?" asked John.

"No. This was…personal," said Sherlock reluctantly.

"Personal? You mean like one of the letters?" John probed. Sherlock ignored the question.

"I'm convinced that finding the person who contacted us is the key to the entire scheme. He was likely given the tools to accomplish the satellite attacks and is following a roadmap laid out by Moriarty."

"But he's-" John interrupted.

"Yes, Moriarty is dead. But his plans are very much alive. And his predecessor is very motivated to thwart me in stopping the attacks."

"Which could put you back on a plane to certain death," said John flatly.

"Just so," Sherlock admitted. "Or worse."

John's eyebrows shot to his hairline. "Worse? What on earth-".

The doorbell rang.

Both men turned as Mrs. Hudson could be heard making her way to the front door. It opened and closed, then she climbed the stairs to 221B.

"Sherlock?" she called. "Oh, hello, John," she said on seeing him. "How is Mary?"

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said imperiously. "I believe that is for me?" he gestured to a manila envelope in her hand, clearly labeled "Sherlock Holmes."

"The envelope?" he demanded. John sighed.

"She's quite well, Mrs. Hudson. Due any day now, thanks for asking."

"Are we quite finished with the inanities?" Sherlock growled.

"Mind your manners, young man," she said warningly, but handed over the envelope. She waited for him to open it. He glared at her then looked meaningfully at the open door. Mrs. Hudson huffed and rolled her eyes, but departed without further comment.

Sherlock ripped the envelope open and scanned the contents. A grin spread across his face.

"Well, is it from him?" asked John impatiently.

"Yes, and it's good news. He wants to meet. I'll be able to end this at last." Sherlock spun toward his coat.

" _You_ will be able to end it?" snapped John. Sherlock swung his coat on then turned, looking into John's eyes. He slowly drew his mobile phone from his pocket.

"Brother mine, I need some goons of yours. We have a hacker to meet." Sherlock raised his eyebrows, as if asking if John approved. John nodded.

"The Museum of London at noon. Don't be late," Sherlock ended the call.

"Care to visit a museum?" he asked, smiling.

"Love to," John responded. He grabbed his coat and they both headed for the street.

London, 8:05 am.

A couple dressed in typical tourist gear, including cameras and tote bags marked "London Eye", entered the Museum of London from its London Wall entrance. They picked up maps of the exhibitions from the elderly woman at the information desk, then seated themselves in the café at the front of the building. After lingering over a cream tea for a half hour, they leisurely wandered into the gift shop, purchased several tacky souvenirs, then set off for the exit.

As they left, they glanced back. A tote bag leaned against the wall behind a café chair. The word "Eye" was just visible, but the bag was ignored by the café staff, who were more absorbed in their conversation than their environment.

The tourists disappeared around the corner and into rush hour pedestrian traffic.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Here is the penultimate chapter, folks. The final one is already written and will be up by Thursday._

Chapter 8

London, 11:15 am

Traffic in London was horrific. After sitting at an intersection with non-functioning lights for 10 minutes, Sherlock and John gave up and began walking to the Museum. They passed tube entrance after tube entrance along the way whose gates were shuttered, some of Sherlock's homeless network huddled in front of them. The city had a vaguely apocalyptic air about it which both men found disturbing.

As they rounded the corner at St. Paul's Cathedral and continued trudging toward London Wall Street, the ground gave a sharp jerk, throwing them off balance. A freight train sound filled the air, even though no vehicles were in sight. Suddenly a cyclone of dirt and debris swept toward them as if being blown down the street. Seconds later, people began to emerge from the fog of dust, faces painted with it, more stumbling than running toward Sherlock and John.

On the upside, none appeared to be seriously injured. But the face of each bore the unmistakable shock of people whose worlds had been violently upended without warning.

As the men fought against the tide of people moving away from the Museum, they began to see a number who were moving purposefully around it. The flashing blue lights of a couple of Met Police cars were fuzzily visible in the cloudy air. The ground was coated in what seemed to be thick mud, but was really great piles of glass and stone shards.

The London Wall entrance of the Museum was gone, a hole where the double glass doors to the lobby had one stood. The café across from the information desk was mere rubble, as was much of the adjacent gift shop. Double decker bus replicas perched incongruously atop bricks and a Downton Abbey themed scarf fluttered from an exposed pipe. Across from the Museum, the glass façade of a prominent law firm was shattered, giving the outside offices an unplanned open air view. Sheaves of paper floated down to the ground.

John began to cough, the air being unsuited to breathing. He shook off his scarf and wrapped it around his mouth and nose. As Sherlock did the same, his arm was grabbed. He turned to see Greg Lestrade with a paper mask over his face.

"What are you two doing here", Greg asked.

"I got a message this morning asking that I come to the Museum," Sherlock replied.

"Well, it's a good thing you didn't get here earlier. We got word of a bomb in it just 20 minutes before it went off. Evacuated everyone there and in the surrounding buildings, thank God, but there were still injuries. It's a bloody mess." Lestrade wiped a hand over his face, leaving streaks. "Just a warning, your brother is here, no idea why. But he'll probably want to talk to you. I get you first, though. Meet me over there-" Greg gestured to a delivery truck which had been pressed into service as an impromptu command center. "I've got someone else to talk to then want to hear all about this message you received."

Sherlock waved toward the delivery truck as Greg walked away. "Meet me over there. I need to see Mycroft," he said.

John planted himself in front of Sherlock, his face the picture of stubbornness. "Absolutely not, you know he'll find you. This isn't anything to mess with, Sherlock. There'll be victims, possible additional fallout from the damaged buildings—let's not make things worse by bumbling about the crime scene this time, yeah? We can wait for Greg and Mycroft over there."

"It's fine, I'll just-" A rumble interrupted Sherlock as a piece of the law firm's entrance broke off, hitting the ground with force. John spun to look. When he turned back, Sherlock was gone.

As John stomped and swore viciously in his wake, Sherlock used the confusion around the Museum's former entrance to slip around the crime scene tape into the building. Inside, it was eerily quiet, the gravelly debris acting to muffle sound. He kept one eye on the ground and another on the structures around him, some of which creaked ominously. Once he reached the decimated service counter in the café, he stopped.

"I'm here," he shouted. No answer.

Sherlock picked his way around the café. He lifted a woven handle of a tote bag from the remains of a table and put it in his pocket.

"I thought you meant to destroy me," Sherlock called out. "Not sure how blowing a hole in a 40 year old building full of boring old exhibits does much to affect my life. I will say, though, I always did like the reproduction of the Queen's carriage horses. Although the horses whose hides were used to make them up may not share my opinion."

"I was told that you were highly intelligent, Mr. Holmes. I didn't realize that you lacked imagination," came a response in slightly accented Chinese.

Sherlock's Chinese was limited to the Mandarin dialect, but he understood the speaker's meaning well enough. He answered in kind.

"I have plenty of imagination. I just don't find any in bombs. Blowing things up completely lacks finesse. I expected more from you." Sherlock said condescendingly.

A slight man dressed in a hazmat suit stepped out from a stairwell behind the collapsed gift shop. "I hate to disappoint," he said softly, this time in English. He kicked at a tarp-covered bundle at his feet, which groaned. Pulling the tarp away, Mary was revealed to be on the ground, bound at the hands and feet, her pregnant belly protruding grotesquely from her body as she tried to twist away from her attacker. A trickle of blood drained from her nose.

Unconsciously, Sherlock's hands formed fists.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes. I see we've now come to something which does affect your life. How do you think John Watson will feel about you if he finds out that you're responsible for killing his wife?"

Sherlock schooled his features into a mask of contempt. In a carefully casual voice, he answered "John wouldn't be happy, of course, but it would be what I believe some cultures call 'good karma'. After all, she once nearly killed me. She acted a bit more directly—a bullet fired from a few feet away tends to get results quickly—but the outcome here will still make us fairly even." Sherlock glanced down. "Sorry, Mary."

"Sherlock," Mary moaned. "The baby…".

"Oh, yes. Yes, that is unfortunate," Sherlock responded. "I suppose whether she survives will depend on the method of murder, won't it, Mr…?" he ended questioningly.

"Dong. Wang Dong, but we're all friends here, Mr. Holmes. You can call me Jack," the man answered.

"Jack, then. Well, Jack, do you intend to add infanticide to your list of crimes today, or will you settle for terrorism and murder of a pregnant woman? Oh, yes, and of me. I assume you don't intend for me to walk out of here today either." Sherlock took a step toward Mary, just enough to adjust his view so he could see her full body.

"No, no, Mr. Holmes. You will live, I assure you. The only other person dying here today other than her," Wang toed Mary. "Will be me. You see, I cannot return to China. The authorities there have given into the imperialist demands of the United States and plan to make—what do you call it?—oh, yes, scapegoats of myself and others who worked on our government's behalf to delve into the most sensitive data of other countries. I was particularly proud of our efforts with the US Office of Personnel a short time ago. So useful to my country to know who the US's spies are." Wang smiled grimly. "But, alas, they need to offer up a villain so they appear to cooperate with the West. I would be that offering, but am afraid that I have no intention of participating in the game. I will die here, a martyr to the cause of striking the British Empire at its core."

"Taking out some dusty antiquities and a few I Love London T-shirts hardly makes you a flag bearer for your countrymen, Jack" Sherlock sniped, rolling his eyes.

"Perhaps not. But then I will have accomplished my main objective, which is to render you a pariah among all who know you. You see, when this one dies," he gestured to Mary. "It will be left to you to save the baby. If you succeed, you'll be hated for letting the mother die. If you fail, you'll be hated even more for both their deaths. Either way, I win and you will spend the rest of your life knowing that your closest companion hates you more than life itself. Which, for him, may be hardly worth continuing to live. All because of you."

"I didn't kill your aunt. That was Moriarty. Her Black Lotus crowd didn't get the job done for her—it wasn't my doing. I didn't even know what she was looking for. Her death was her fault for looking in the wrong place." Sherlock said.

"Shut up!" shouted Wang. "She would have succeeded if not for you. Her employer hated you, you were more his target than the jade pin she'd been sent to London to retrieve. Had you not gotten in her way, he wouldn't have cared about the pin. It was the fact that you survived which led him to take her life." Wang was breathing harder and leaned down over Mary.

"Enough," he snapped. "It is time to end this." He brought a gun to Mary's head. She moaned and tried to pull back, but was impeded in her movement by her belly and the rubble around her.

A shot rang out. Sherlock shouted and more debris fell from the ceiling, striking him in the head and knocking him to the ground.


	9. Chapter 9

_This is the end of this particular road. Thanks for all the feedback, folks!_

Chapter 9

12:20 pm, London

Sherlock tried to sit up, too disoriented to focus on anything other than his pounding head. A large chunk of concrete had broken loose from the torn ceiling of the Museum lobby, glancing off his temple. As he gasped for air, his hearing returned with a whoosh. He heard muttered voices, then remembered—Mary.

"Mary!" he choked out, then broke into a coughing fit from the dust surrounding him. He tried to get his legs to cooperate with him in standing to no avail. A hand pressed firmly down on his shoulder.

"Stay there, help is coming." It sounded like John's voice, but there was no warmth in it at all. Not from concern, nor from anger. It was simply flat. The hand moved away and Sherlock slumped back to the floor.

As he struggled again to rise, another hand gripped him, this time helping him to his feet. Greg Lestrade peered at Sherlock's eyes.

"Hey, Sherlock, you ok?" Greg held up his hand. "How many fingers?"

Sherlock swatted Greg's hand away. "Go 'way," he mumbled. "Where's Mary?" Sherlock tried to stagger forward, only to sway dangerously.

"She's fine. Well, not fine exactly, but she will be. Looks like she's gone into labor. A shock thing, maybe." Greg wrapped an arm around Sherlock to support him and they began to move toward the gaping hole at the front of the lobby. Sherlock tried to turn back.

"She's not there, the paramedics are taking her out. They'll get her and John to a hospital before the baby arrives, don't worry." Greg said soothingly.

"Dong?" asked Sherlock.

"Excuse me?" said Greg. "Oh, you mean the shooter. He got a shot off but it went wild—that's what caused the roof to fall in on you. Must have been threatening Mary, but _someone_ took him out before he could do her any harm. Can't imagine who would have had a gun in here." Greg looked meaningfully at Sherlock. He put on the best look of innocence he could muster given his pounding headache.

"Anyway," Greg continued. "The government boys came in and took him away. I assume they'll give him medical attention, but that information was apparently above my pay grade."

Greg didn't look as put out as he might have under the circumstances. From what little he'd gleaned from the MI6 types milling around the crime scene, the shooter had been involved in the satellite disaster afflicting London and other cities. Given the nightmare that had produced, Greg would have been hard pressed to have given the guy a band-aid, much less intensive care.

Sherlock didn't respond. Instead, he was squinting against the sunlight, looking for John and Mary.

Greg sighed. "Come on," he said patiently. As they stepped outside the remains of the museum entrance, Sherlock flinched. Greg looked at him in concern, then frowned.

"Your pupils are pretty damned dilated. That better be from the bang on the head, sunshine, and not more drugs."

"Of course it's from my head," Sherlock snapped. "I. Am. Clean."

"Yeah, well you weren't not that long ago, to hear big brother tell it." Greg snarked.

Sherlock just humphed and continued to scan the area for John.

"They'll have gone to the hospital by now, Sherlock. The Royal London. Let's get you fixed up and you can join them."

"I'll just go back to Baker Street." Sherlock said, starting to walk for the curb.

"What?" Greg was incredulous. "Mary goes into premature labor and you're…what, going to head home for a cuppa?"

"I am concussed." Sherlock answered. Seeing that his response didn't satisfy Greg, he continued. "John doesn't need me to worry about. I'll text him that I'll be along later."

Sherlock's excuse was pure nonsense. He'd heard the censure in John's voice when he woke. While it was true that John would understandably be most concerned at the moment with Mary, he'd normally want Sherlock by his side. Sherlock, however, suspected that things were no longer normal between them, that Dong had achieved his objective. Mary and the baby had nearly paid the ultimate price for Sherlock being targeted by yet another madman. John wouldn't be forgiving, not this time.

Greg stared at Sherlock for a few long seconds, then nodded.

"Fine, then. Wait here for a few minutes while I make sure the scene is handed off to your brother's team. I'll run you home."

Sherlock nodded, then stepped away from the crowd of responders to wait for his ride.

On the way to Baker Street, Mycroft texted Sherlock the news that Dong had been shot in the shoulder, relieving him of the gun he'd held, and was being treated under arrest.

HE IS BEING QUITE TALKATIVE IN EXCHANGE FOR EXTRADITION IMMUNITY. HE WAS GOVERNMENT ASSISTED, WORKING WITH OTHERS.—MH

YOU'RE NOT SENDING HIM BACK TO CHINA?—SH

OF COURSE WE ARE. CHINA, UK AND US COOPERATING IN PROSECUTION. NO NEED FOR HIM TO KNOW THAT, NATURALLY.—MH

Sherlock smiled slightly and leaned back into the passenger seat of Greg's car, closing his eyes. Greg gave him a worried glance but, accustomed to Sherlock's silences, drove on.

To distract himself from the pain in his head, he tried to sort out his problem with John. In the past, John had proved to be quite forgiving, eventually. Surely he'd see that Sherlock hadn't intentionally placed Mary and the baby in Dong's path. But there was the matter of him leaving John to go into the museum. John had complained about similar actions in the past, claiming they demonstrated a lack of trust.

Sherlock snorted to himself. He trusted John, it was just that in certain instances, he needed to trust him to stay put. Quick action sometimes required less moral needling. For some reason, though, John didn't see it that way.

When they arrived at Baker Street, Sherlock waved Greg off with the barest (and barely sincere) of thanks. Rather than climbing the stairs to 221B, he headed for Mrs. Hudson's flat, using his spare key.

Two hours and a handful of paracetamol later, Sherlock received another text from Mycroft.

BABY BORN. GIRL, 6 POUNDS, 3 OUNCES. NAME PENDING. MOTHER AND CHILD HEALTHY.—MH.

WHY WOULD ANYONE CARE ABOUT HER WEIGHT?—SH

CUSTOM, SHERLOCK. AS IS PINK, IF YOU BRING A GIFT, WHICH I SUGGEST YOU DO.-MH

No answer was given or expected. Moving with a bit less agility than usual, Sherlock departed for the hospital. He followed its signs to the maternity ward, somewhat alarmed at the sheer number of pregnant bellies he encountered along the way. Having located Mary's room, he hovered at its entrance long enough that several nurses began to eye him suspiciously. Just as he finally raised his hand to knock, John emerged.

The two men stared at each other for what seemed like ages.

"Sherlock," said John finally.

"John," Sherlock responded, fighting unsuccessfully to keep the nervousness out of his tone.

"The baby is born. We're calling her Abigail, after Mary's real mother." Despite an understandable giddiness to his expression, John's lips tightened. "They're both fine." _No thanks to you,_ went unspoken but was heard clearly by Sherlock.

"Good, good," Sherlock stammered. "Here." He extended a gift bag full of pink-hued baby goodies. Mrs. Hudson would have to forgive him for confiscating her gift, for which he had a more pressing need.

John's eyebrows shot to his hairline. That Sherlock turned up wasn't a complete surprise, but that he did so complete with a socially acceptable gesture was.

So long did John pause in accepting the proffered gift that Sherlock began to lower it. Realizing his error, John grabbed for it and they engaged in an awkward dance as Sherlock raised then lowered the gift bag. Finally, John snagged it.

"Er, thank you," said John. Sherlock nodded. "Mary is giving Abigail a feed or I'd let you see her."

Sherlock noticed that no invitation for a future meeting was extended. He sucked in a breath and took a step back. Scanning his mind for an appropriate statement, Sherlock settled on "Congratulations."

"Thanks," John repeated, then an uncomfortable silence ensued.

"Well, then," Sherlock nodded down the hall. John didn't answer, and Sherlock slowly turned away.

"Sherlock." He stopped, looking over his shoulder. John's expression bordered on grim.

"Why, Sherlock. Why did you have to go in there alone? If I hadn't gotten there on time…" John choked.

"There wasn't time," Sherlock began.

"To do what? Say, I'm going to do something stupid like confront the bad guy, want to come along? That's what, 5 seconds? Never mind that you put yourself in danger—again—but you couldn't have saved yourself or anyone else against a lunatic with a gun. Something you know I have, _and you don't_." John closed his eyes, steadying himself. "Five years, Sherlock. Five years we've known each other and I still never know when you're going to just cut me out, not trust me to back you up, or maybe not care enough to let me."

John stepped forward. "And this time, _this time_ , you nearly took everyone I care about with you." He took a deep breath. "I don't know if I can do this anymore." He shook his head, looking for a reaction from Sherlock, who'd gone pale but said nothing.

"I'm going to go be with my wife and child now," John said, turning back to the door of Mary's room. He'd just opened it when Sherlock spoke.

"Look in the bag," he said.

"What?" John turned back.

"The bag. Look inside," Sherlock instructed.

John shook his head again, despairingly. "I'll look at it later with Mary, Sherlock. We have lots of gifts."

Sherlock winced at the slight, then gestured to the bag. "Please," he said. "Just look."

Sighing, John shoved aside the bright pink tissue paper lining the top of the gift bag. He pulled a floppy pink stuffed kitten from inside then paused. Slowly, he drew out a manila envelope marked "Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson." He met Sherlock's eyes, a question in his own.

"Read it," Sherlock said.

"This isn't the time-" began John.

"Please," repeated Sherlock.

With another sigh, John said, "Still not a magic word, Sherlock, but ok. Let's go over there," John pointed toward a vinyl covered bench in the hallway.

The men settled themselves on it and John placed the gift bag beside him. He turned the envelope over in his hand.

"You want me to read it this time?" John asked, in more of a statement than a question. Sherlock nodded.

Tearing open the envelope, John pulled out a single sheet of paper and began to read. When he'd finished, he sat for several moments, holding the sheet in his lap.

"Why did you show me this, Sherlock?" he asked quietly.

Sherlock shrugged. "I trust you," he said simply.

John stared at him for a second, then looked back at the paper. Sherlock continued.

"There's more," he said. "I thought she was pregnant. I let her leave anyway."

John looked back at Sherlock and raised his eyebrows. "Was she?"

"No, or so Mycroft says. I didn't follow up." Sherlock's eyes strayed to a window and stayed fixed on it.

John folded the paper and put it back into the envelope.

"If I thought that Abigail existed and I'd missed having her in my life, I'd never forgive myself," he said. Sherlock flinched.

"Yes, well," he said. "I think we've established that I'm not as good a person as you." He stood, brushing his coat down. As he adjusted his scarf, John spoke.

"Sit down, you git. That's not what I meant. It's just that it would have been a shame for there to have been a little Sherlock in the world you never knew about." Sherlock stared, horrified at the thought.

John grinned slightly. "And she didn't exactly beat down your door to stay in touch, either, did she? You were eighteen, Sherlock. Even genius eighteen year olds do stupid things. Sometimes really stupid things," he said.

Sherlock smiled back, relieved. "Sometimes genius thirty-nine year olds do stupid things, too," he answered.

"Oh, now I know the world is coming to an end," snarked John. "Sherlock Holmes, admitting to idiocy."

"I admit nothing," Sherlock responded. John rolled his eyes, then sat smiling at Sherlock for a few moments.

"Come on, let's go introduce Abigail to her godfather."

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"If you're going to tell me you didn't realize that we'd ask you to be her godfather, you really _are_ an idiot."

Sherlock looked at John, then a grin slowly spread across his face.

"Don't tell my goddaughter," he said. "But if she's as smart as her parents, she'll figure it out on her own."

John grinned back and slapped Sherlock on the back. As they went into the room, the TV in the hallway flickered to life. A reporter standing in front of Parliament began to speak.

"London celebrates the return of her transportation and communication systems today. Life is returning to usual."

~ _Fin_ ~


End file.
